


Scars

by isnt_it_pretty



Series: Of Broken Hearts and Kindred Spirits [6]
Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Established Relationship, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Self-Harm, dead family members
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-30
Updated: 2019-09-30
Packaged: 2020-11-08 03:00:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20828291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/isnt_it_pretty/pseuds/isnt_it_pretty
Summary: Sylvain is drunk, and Felix finds out one of his secrets.





	Scars

**Author's Note:**

> Guess who's back with another part in the series y'all love? Me!
> 
> Let's be honest, if you've been reading this series, you know what this fic is about. If you haven't, welcome! I hope you enjoy!
> 
> As always, hmu on discord Canadeath#1368, instragram and twitter (even though I don't use either) @isnt_it_pretty

Sylvain is drunk.

In the two months they’ve been dating, Felix has come to learn the “Moderation”, and “Sylvain” don’t really go hand in hand. He supposes it isn’t all that different from when they were kids (Sylvain always ate _ the most _ candy), but it had never been a possible danger before.

Now? Ugh. 

Felix is strong, but even he's struggling under the weight of Sylvain (who really _ should _ weigh more), barely conscious on his back. The idiot drank enough that he could barely _ stand, _ let alone walk _ . _ Celebrating midterms is not a worthy excuse for this shit.

“I feel sick,” Sylvain slurs in his ear, head pressed into the crook of Felix’s neck. 

“If you vomit on me, I’m dumping you in this hallway,” he replies, readjusting his grip. They weren’t far from Sylvain’s dorm room now, with its _ single bed. _ If it were up to Felix, they’d just crash at his place. It’s far more comfortable. But of course, Ingrid and Dimitri would be there, and Sylvain still absolutely refused to spend the night there, lest they find out. So instead, they kick Caspar out and cram into Sylvain’s stupidly small bed.

More than once, Felix had woken up with a sore neck. He can’t imagine what it must do to Sylvain, but he doesn’t complain, so fuck it.

Finally, they get to Sylvain’s door. Caspar is still at the party, which is both a blessing and a curse. It would be much easier just to leave Sylvain with his roommate and fuck off, even if Felix knows he’d never do that. Idiot.

He manages to get inside and close the door without dropping him, which is honestly a small miracle. He ventures through the dark room to where he knows Sylvain’s bed is, and gently lowers him into it.

If Sylvain wasn’t so drunk, he would’ve just dropped him into it. As it is, Felix is afraid of having to clean up puke if he did. He reaches over to the lamp, and flicks it on.

Sylvain’s eyes are closed, and Felix can’t tell whether he’s unconscious or not. Part of him hopes he is, although he knows he has to get some water into him before he can really let Sylvain sleep. He should also find a bucket. At least the dorm room is practically a pharmacy, he’ll have no problem finding pain killers for the horrific hangover Sylvain’s going to have.

Glancing at his partner, Felix can’t help but admire him. He’s wearing a pair of tight distressed jeans that even manage to peak Felix’s interest, as well as light green button up, with the sleeves rolled up to reveal his _ beautiful _ tattoos. It’s pretty normal for his clothing choices, but he still manages to pull it off well, with his slightly disheveled red hair.

Sylvain groans a little bit, pulling Felix’s attention _ away _ from appreciating his boyfriend’s features. He looks nauseous.

Okay, step one. Bucket. 

There’s a reason he and Caspar have two garbage bins, Felix supposes. From what he’s heard, Sylvain spends a good amount of exams sick to his stomach, and throwing up everything he eats. Carefully, Felix pours the contents of the one closest (Sylvain’s fucking _ spider man _ bin), into the one by Caspar’s desk (a cat, really?). 

“If you need to vomit, use this,” he says, shoving the bucket next to Sylvain’ He wraps his hand around it.

Step two. Water.

There’s a bottle on his bedside table, but knowing Sylvain, it’s been there for three weeks. 

“I’ll be right back,” he says, and waits for Sylvain to nod in confirmation. At least he’s conscious enough that he _ probably _ won’t asphyxiate in the two minutes it takes Felix to fill up the water bottle. 

He fills it up in the sink further down in the hallway, and screws the lid on tightly. It has a straw, so he won’t have to risk fucking water boarding Sylvain while trying to get water into him. Not that he wouldn’t deserve it at this point.

Venturing back into the room, he’s hit by the pungent smell of barf. Lovely.

Sylvain is lying stomach down on the bed, his face pressed into the pillows. The formerly empty bucket is still next to him, his arm still holding it in place.

“You’re absolutely disgusting,” Felix tells him, moving to sit on the bed next to him. “Turn over, you need to drink something.”

Sylvain doesn’t make a sound, which leads Felix to believe he’s either unconscious, or dead.

He sighs as he moves the bucket to the floor. “Sylvain,” he says, as he rolls his partner over. “Sylvain wake up.”

Sylvain cringes as his eyes flicker open. God, he’s so drunk.

“Drink,” Felix says, handing him to water bottle. “Small sips.” Sylvain does.

Felix stands. 

“You smell disgusting,” he tells him, which is true. He reeks of cheap booze and vomit, which is not helped by the bucket of a similar substance next to his feet. He really can’t decide which to deal with first.

Sylvain looks like he’s already falling back asleep. Hopefully no more sick until tomorrow then. He takes the bucket to rinse it out, cursing himself for caring so fucking much. Should’ve just left him on the couch at the party, Mercedes probably would’ve taken care of him, if she wasn’t too busy with Annette. 

Ugh, who is he kidding? He could never leave Sylvain passed out and vulnerable somewhere. Would never forgive himself if something happened, if he got hurt. Even if Sylvain _ is _ an idiot sometimes (usually). 

By the time he makes to back with the now clean bin, Sylvain is indeed passed out. Honestly, it’s unsurprising. He wasn’t very coherent for the last hour or so. At least it doesn’t look like he has alcohol poisoning, which is good. They do not need a repeat of two months ago.

Putting the bucket next to the bed - and moving the water bottle Sylvain dropped - Felix takes it upon himself to start looking for his pajamas. He may be a cold hearted asshole, but he’s not going to let Sylvain sleep in disgusting, alcohol and vomit reeking clothes.

He finds a pair that he knows Sylvain likes. Who even sleeps in actual pajamas anyways? At least they’re soft, but the pattern is stupid, penguins, really? He sets them aside, and turns back to Sylvain.

Undressing him feels awkward. Yeah they’re dating, have grown up together, but they aren’t having sex. Heated make outs sure, but being ace, Felix has never felt a need to press. Sylvain’s reasoning, he doesn’t know, but he suspects that it has something to do with his... complicated history with sex.

Sighing, he turns his attention back to his sleeping partner. “You owe me,” he says as he sits next to him again. He starts by undoing the brace that he has made a _ point _ of insuring Sylvain wears when he needs to. He still hasn’t forgotten the month or so previously when Sylvain was out of commission due to pain. Next comes the shirt. He unbuttons it, and starts by taking it off his good arm first. Is this what undressing an infant feels like? He moves it under Sylvain, so that he can carefully move it off his left arm, without having to manipulate it too much. Trying to move Sylvain’s arm without him able to say when it hurts is just a bad idea.

Button up removed, Felix pulls off the white undershirt in a similar fashion. Right arm, over his head this time, left arm. He grabs the pajama shirt, long sleeved and blue, and does the same thing in reverse order. It takes longer than Felix would like to admit, and he wonders how Sylvain is able to get dressed on his own when his shoulder can’t really be moved. He knows Sylvain has a sling for those days, as uncommon as they may be, but he never seems to use it, opting just to wear the brace instead, and avoid using it. Stubborn fool.

The shirt finally on, Felix throws the two he removed to the overflowing pile of laundry Sylvain has _ still _ yet to do. He’s going to run out of clothes sooner rather than later.   
Okay. Pants. Come on Fraldarius, you can do this.

He reaches for Sylvain’s belt, undoing it and trying not to make it feel sexual. First, as prior mentioned, he’s really not interested in sex in the first place (although if Sylvain wanted to, he wouldn’t say _ no) _. Second, Sylvain is passed out drunk.

Carefully, he starts to shimmy the jeans down Sylvain’s thighs. In the low light, he doesn’t notice anything unusual until he manages to toss them aside, and grab the pajama pants.

Then it hits him. His brain registers what he’s seeing and he realizes he’s never seen Sylvain without pants before. Mostly because if he had, he’d sure as fuck remember the scars, coating his thighs. 

Of course, he _ suspected _ that Sylvain self harmed. He’d felt bumpy skin under his tattoos, but he never asked, and Sylvain never brought it up. What he never expected, however, was the extent of it. 

They have varying depths and lengths. Some much shorts, others upwards of a few centimeters long. The newest one looked to still be a few months old, thank God. He doesn’t know what he’d do if they were fresh.

It hurt to see it, way more than he thought it would. Maybe it was the knowledge that some looked to be _ years _ old, barely visible against the newer ones. Or maybe it was just fear.

Against his better judgement, he lets his hand dust against them. It’s shaking, he notices, and decides to disregard that useless bit of information.

His fingertips just barely touch the damaged skin, dancing along the scars that Felix _ knows _ he shouldn’t be looking at. Know Sylvain will probably freak out if he finds out. But he didn’t _ mean _ to see them. He just wanted to help!

He grabs the pants, intent on putting them on him and going to sleep. They can talk about them tomorrow. It isn’t important right now, as much as he wants to scream at Sylvain about it (he won’t. As clueless as he is when it comes to emotional crap, he knows better than to lose it at Sylvain over this). He’s about to put them on, when he notices another scar. 

They trail up underneath his boxers, Felix knows that much, but this particular one is just below the hemline. It’s deep, probably deeper than the rest. It looks like it should have gotten stitches, but never did, which isn’t all that surprising all things considered.

His stomach sinks at the sight of it. Dread welling up as he looks at the letter X.

_ Please don’t be what I think it is. Please don’t be what I think it is. Please- _

Carefully, Felix pushes the fabric upwards, revealing more of the scars.

The start, the first _ letter, _ is even deeper than the last. He feels sick, looking at his own name carved into the flesh of Sylvain’s thigh.

By some miracle, some grace of fucking god, Felix manages to finish dressing Sylvain without being sick. He rolls him onto his good side, just in case, and rushes from the room as quickly as he can.

The air is cool, being as it’s just the start of November. It’s a nice reprieve from the heat pooling itself through him.

There's a group of students smoking by the corner, and Felix feels himself drift towards them before he even knows what he’s doing.

Talking to people he doesn’t know, hell even people he _ does _know, causes more anxiety than he could ever admit. But right now he needed something, anything, to take his mind off the image trapped in it. He hasn’t smoked in forever. Even when he did, it wasn’t often. Just enough to calm his nerves, or distract him. His friends would have killed him if they ever found out.

“Hey,” he says as he approaches them. They’re laughing, but it dies down as he speaks. “Can I grab a smoke off you?” He’s expecting them to charge him like $5 or something, but they don’t.

“Yeah, sure man,” one girl says. She fishes out her pack and hands it to him, letting him grab one out. 

“Need a light?” a boy says, lighter already in hand.

“Yeah, that would be great.” He hands back the pack and lights the cigarette. Letting the smoke penetrate his lungs, he sighs in relief. “Thanks.”

Logically, Felix knows that smoking increases anxiety and stress, but the immediate relief off nicotine is worth more than he can express right now.

He’s still outside, cigarette gone and mind still whirling, an hour later. He should go back inside, or go home. It’s chilly without a coat, but he finds he can’t do either. This is his fault isn’t it? He wasn’t there for Sylvain, and look what happened. He tried to kill himself, he’s been hurting himself, he-

“Felix?”

He looks up at the sound of his name, only to see Ashe walking towards him. He’s wearing a navy blue pea-coat over a black hoodie.

“I thought that was you,” he says when he gets closer, he sounds surprised, which Felix supposes is fair. It_ is _past 1am.. “What are you doing out here? It’s freezing!”

Ashe, dear sweet Ashe. Felix wants to hate him, wants to hate a lot of people actually, but he just _ can’t. _ There’s something so earnest in his eyes, like he’s completely incapable of lying. Dude’s probably a serial killer or something, there’s no way anybody can be _ that _ nice. 

Of course, it helps that Ingrid has taken quite a liking to him.

“Felix?” Ashe asks again, concerned this time.

“Just sitting,” he says, shrugging. Which really, could he be any less convincing that everything’s fine?

He thinks Ashe is going to ask if he’s okay, or ask what’s wrong, but he doesn’t.

“Want some tea?”

Maybe it’s that Felix really is freezing, or maybe he just doesn’t want to be alone. Either way, he still agrees.

Ashe’s room, which he shares with a currently absent Ferdinand, is much cleaner than Sylvain and Caspar’s.

“Chamomile okay?” he asks, and Felix just knows he’s getting to the question. Trying to give calming teas instead of something with caffeine.

He makes a noise of agreement, and finds himself looking at an old photo in a brown, wooden frame. It’s off a very young Ashe, what looks to be his parents and younger siblings. It looks weathered and water damaged, the colours faded. It’s creased into quarters, as if it’s been folded before.

“Is this your family?” he asks. 

Ashe looks up from his dresser, where he’s preparing two mugs of tea. “Oh, yeah,” he says. “That was taken before my parents passed away.”

_ Fuck. _

“I’m sorry,” Felix says, and cringes. He remembers how annoyed and angry he got when everybody said the same shit about Glenn.

Ashe just shrugs. “It’s fine. It was a long time ago!” he points to another photo, this one much newer. It’s of Ashe at what appears to be his high school graduation. The younger siblings from the other photo seemed to be older. There’s two men in it, one probably a decade older than Ashe, and the other much more. “That’s our adopted family,” he explains. “My father, Lonato, and brother, Kristophe.”

A couple minutes later, he’s handed a mug of tea.

“I left it plain,” Ashe tells him. “I know how much you dislike sweets.”

Felix nods, and takes the mug. It’s hot, but he can appreciate that. Ashe sits on his bed and lets Felix take his desk chair.

“So, want to talk about whatever is bothering you?” Ashe asks eventually. He smiles, “you don’t have to, but know that I’m here.”

If he’s honest, Felix could probably go for talking. It isn’t something he’s very comfortable doing though. For years now Felix has ignored how he feels. Easier to go to the gym, or for a run. He’s only wanted to start opening up more after reconnecting with Sylvain. It’s complicated enough as it is, it never would have happened if he hadn’t risked being vulnerable. Ugh, feelings are stupid and overrated.

“I’m not sure what to say,” he admits, frowning into the mug.

“Well, did something happen between you and Sylvain?”

He sighs, but nods.

“I was texting Annette, she said he was drunk. Is that related?” he prompted.

Felix thinks about how to answer. “Not exactly.” He blew the air from his lungs.

It takes a good half hour of coaxing before Felix is finally able to explain what happened.

“I just don’t know what to do Ashe. I’m not great with emotions, or being comforting. And I doubt shutting up is going to help and-” he lets out air. “I almost lost him once. I _ did _ lose him once. To see this? I mean I suspected, but he had them tattooed over, so I figured it was fine.” He groans, putting his head in his hands. The tea is drank. “If I were there, if I were better, it wouldn’t have happened.. I’m fucking pissed, which I know isn’t going to help anything. I don’t even know whether I’m pissed at him, or at myself.” It’s a lot to admit, especially to somebody who isn’t Sylvain. “Obviously he needed me, I don’t see why else he would have cut _ my name, _ but I wasn’t there.”

“Okay, first” Ashe starts. “You said none were recent, right?” 

Felix nods.

“Then do you really have to _ do _ anything?”

“I- What do you mean?” he questions in response.

“Okay,” Ashe leans forward. “He has scars right? He did self harm, but if none of them are new, it means he isn’t currently. It probably means he’s been trying to stop.” He’s fidgeting with the hem of his hoodie. “Being angry at him definitely won’t help, but if he knows you blame yourself, he’ll feel guilty. He probably _ already _ feels guilty about your name being there.”

Felix nods, it makes sense. 

“Just, talk to him. Tell him what happened and say you’re worried,” he shrugs. “That’s really all that can be done, as long as he isn’t a risk to himself.”

“I just don’t get it,” Felix mutters.

Ashe sighs. “I know. Its... hard to understand. There’s a kind of twisted logic to it. You’re hurting, and it distracts from that. It can be grounding, and the release of chemicals can cause a rush. When everything is overwhelming, or completely numb, it’s a way to deal with that. I-I mean not a good one, of course, a terrible way really. It only causes more problems in the long run.” He shrugs. 

“Ashe,” Felix says slowly. He’s picking through his words carefully. “Do you-?”

“Did,” Ashe corrects, and suddenly Felix is intensely aware of the sweaters Ashe always wears. “There’s a lot of reasons, and stopping is really hard, but possible. I bet Sylvain has been scared to tell you, so talk to him, and show your support. Okay?”

He let the conversation drift to other topics, before seeing himself out. It’s late, and he’s tired. Slowly, he makes his way back to Sylvain’s dorm.

* * *

“Ugh,” Felix is woken by Sylvain groaning, loudly. “I am _ never _ drinking again.” He has his good arm thrown over his eyes.

Felix makes a noise of agreement as he reaches over to grab the water bottle from the nightstand. “Buckets on the floor if you need to throw up,” he tells him, and passes him the water. “Drink.”

“Felix, I think I’m _ dying _.”

“Shut up,” Felix moves the water to his lips. “You’re just hung over. Which is your own fault might I add. I told you not to drink so much.”

“You were right,” Sylvain concedes before he starts sipping on water.

Felix grabs the bottle of naproxen he made sure to set aside before bed the night before. “Take this,” he passes on to him. 

“You’re a blessing Felix,” is the muttered response.

He scoffs. “Yeah, yeah. Go take a shower, you still stink like vodka.”

Sylvain tries to move, but cringes. “Dear God, this is Annette’s fault.”

He sighs. “Fine. You wait here for those to kick in. I’ll go run to the store and grab some breakfast.”

Sylvain lifts his arm to squint at him. “You’re being nice to me,” he points out, mistrusting. 

Felix shrugs. “Shower by the time I get back, or I’m letting you starve.” He sits up and grabs his keys.

True to his order, Sylvain has showered. His hair is wet, although he isn’t dressed. Rather, sitting with a towel wrapped around his waist. He’s clutching the pajamas he wore the night before..

Felix passes him a large coffee and a breakfast sandwich.

“Felix-” he sounds scared.

He holds up his hand, effectively silencing him. “Yes I saw,” he says, and quickly follows with, “No, I’m not mad. And I don’t think any less of you.”

God, he needs more coffee. He ordered three. One for Sylvain, and two for himself. He downed the first in the car already.

“We’ll talk more after we eat, because I am _ not _ caffeinated enough to have this conversation.”

In retrospect, he probably should’ve just talked to him, considering how Sylvain picks at the food in front of him. Anxiety induced nausea is a bitch. So, he remedies it by caving half way through.

“Sylvain,” he says, trying to keep his voice even. “I need you to promise me something.”

Sylvain looks up, blinking at him. As if it’s surprising Felix even wants to talk to him still.

“If you ever feel like doing that again, please call me.” It means a lot to say, and he hopes Sylvain realizes that. Felix isn’t exactly the most emotionally available person. “I don’t want you hurting yourself, whatever the reason was, so call me. I’ll come over and sit with you, or stay up talking. Whatever you need from me.”

“Felix-”

“Promise,” he cuts him off. “Promise me Sylvain.”

He watches his partner. Sylvain’s breathing is quick, his hands fiddling with the sandwich in them, as if he’s forgotten it’s edible. “I promise,” he says after a moment, before looking away. “But Felix, I... you... your-”

“My name,” Felix says. He knows that if he lets Sylvain talk, he’ll syc himself out so badly that nothing will be able to calm him down. “I’m not going to pretend I understand, it’s been explained to me and I still don’t _ get _ it, but whatever you need, I’ll give.”

Sylvain looks like he’s about to start crying. “Really?” he sounds so quiet and meek.

Felix rolls his eyes, “yeah no shit. We’re dating aren’t we?”

Sylvain laughs. It catches him off guard. And then he realizes that he’s _ crying _ too, and everything gets even more confusing.

“What?” he asks, “why are you-?”

“I was so scared to tell you,” he says, tears streaming down his face. It’s kind of weird. “Even when I first did it, I was so scared if you ever found out, you’d hate me. And then we-we started dating,” the word is still hard for him to use, along with ‘boyfriend’, but they’re working on it. Two months is a short amount of time to unlearn two decades of internalized homophobia. “I thought it would be even worse if you found out. And when I realized that you must have changed my clothes, and you must have seen it, I was so worried. S-so scared. I thought you were going to come back here and break up with me."

Felix stares at him, dumbly. “You thought,” he starts, “that I was going to tell you to shower, buy you food, and dump you?”

“Well, I mean-”

“Good God you’re a fucking idiot.”

The crying is mostly laughter now, although he still can’t tell whether the lingering tears are from happiness or not. 

“Yeah,” he whispers. “I am.”

They’re quiet while they finish eating. Sylvain tells him that he’s eternally grateful for the coffee, and drinks it with the same speed Felix does his own. Of course, Sylvain doesn’t practically live off coffee like Felix does.

“Sylvain,” Felix says, drawing his partner’s attention. “We should also talk about your drinking.”

“What about it?” he asks.

“Have you ever heard the term ‘moderation’?” its half joking, half serious. “Because it doesn’t look like it, and until you do, you should probably avoid doing it.”

He expects a fight, or at least a snarky response.

Instead, Sylvain just shrugs. “Maybe it’s the hangover talking,” he cringes at a car alarm outside. “But I think you’re right.”

Felix ‘hmm’s in response.

“You know,” Sylvain says casually (too casually). “Caspar won’t be back for a few hours yet.”

He raises his eyebrows. “What do you have in mind?”

“Well, now that I don’t need to hide my legs from you,” he’s smiling. Bastard.

Felix thinks of the night before, about how if Sylvain asked him too...

He smiles in return, and pushes Sylvain - who is still in nothing but a towel - down on the bed,

**Author's Note:**

> So they're fucking now. Finally.


End file.
